


a day in the life

by attheborder



Category: Good Omens (TV), The Beatles (Band)
Genre: 1960s, 1960s Music, Angst, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Foreshadowing, Gen, Historical, Historical References, Identity Issues, Inspired by Music, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Music, Musical References, POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), Pining, Pre-Canon, References to the Beatles, apologies to Chabon, aziraphale is jewish i don't make the rules, crowley the beatles fan, high-level self-indulgence, realizing things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-05-19 04:39:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19349668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/attheborder/pseuds/attheborder
Summary: “Rock and roll?Really,Crowley? No, I’m afraid I know Mr. Epstein far better than you do. We have quite similar tastes, you see, he’s a great appreciator of the classics. Brahms, Bach. He maysellpop records in his shop, but I can’t possibly see how a group like this could play a role in improving his life.”“Aziraphale,trustme on this.”The angel looked wildly unconvinced. Crowley sighed. He was going to have to bring out the big guns.“You owe me one,” Crowley said. “Hamlet, remember?”Aziraphale gave an outraged wiggle. “This isn’tShakespeare,my dear, this is— this is— rebellion!”“Not rebellion,” said Crowley. “Revolution.”(This is a story about Aziraphale and Brian Epstein. Did you know they were friends?)





	a day in the life

If you were to assemble a group of the leading Beatles scholars of the past half-century and ask them to choose, out of the panoply of impossible moments leading to the band’s domination of the entire world, which one was a legitimate _miracle,_ you would get a number of different answers. 

Maybe, one might say, a miracle was present in the chance meeting of two boys on a sweaty Saturday afternoon in a field behind a Woolton church; or maybe the miracle had already come in the months before, bodily present in the curve of a teenaged hand around a £20 Gallotone in the back room at Mendips, forming the eternal geometry of a ringing E chord. 

Another might select the moment when a young Raymond Jones entered a record store on Whitechapel Street, asking the sharply-dressed man behind the counter for the recently released Tony Sheridan single “My Bonnie,” featuring a group credited as The Beat Brothers. 

Still others would argue it was a full year earlier, the first time the young Richard Starkey played the same stage as the other three, at the Kaiserkeller amidst the scarlet glow of the Reeperbahn lights, the holiness of the confluence obscured by the body-buzz of Preludin and the hoary murk of lager.

And some contrarian, concerned with the big picture, would venture forth the thesis that _really,_ it was the 1957 abolishment of the National Service requirement for young men born in or after 1940 that made the Beatles possible, preventing the mandatory enlistment of the band’s two oldest members and allowing their trips to Hamburg to take place uninterrupted.

In their own way, each of these suggestions are correct. The hand of fate got an awful lot of exercise during that precious decade and change, reaching down over and over again to braid the strands of  coincidence together into an unbreakable chain. But in the end, only one of the above, only one singular thorn in the dense bramble of this legendary timeline, was a direct result of _actual,_ literal divine intervention. 

The interventionist in question would often wonder, in later years, whether things would have gone in much the same way if he’d stayed his hand, refrained from intercession; whether his contribution had mattered at all, in the end. And it may have taken longer than he expected to understand, but eventually he was able to satisfy himself with believing that this miracle didn’t only change the world, but in fact saved it, many times over. 

 

**1957**

 

For the angel Aziraphale, whose bookshop had stood open for over a century and a half in London’s Soho neighborhood, a successful morning in business had a rather unique meaning. To him, the ideal workday was judged on criteria that included a total lack of customers, a complete absence of sales, and in fact an outright avoidance of any activity that might be even remotely construed as relating to the pursuit of profit.

He had just been about to mentally mark down the morning of 9 March, 1957 as a complete triumph in the battle against the specter of commercial enterprise and depart for lunch, when the door’s bell rang with a chime as it opened.

A man had wandered in. A boy, really, his youthful features quite at odds with his maturely tailored pinstriped suit and upright posture. Aziraphale reluctantly rose from his comfortable chair behind the sales counter and went to greet the customer. He was already formulating a plan of psychological attack that would have the interloper out within minutes. 

But as he approached, and the man’s face turned to catch the light, a shock of recognition flew through Aziraphale, and he exclaimed, “Why, it’s you!”

The man’s eyebrows knitted together in uncertainty. “I’m sorry,” he said, “have we met?” 

“Oh, I do apologize. No, we have not. A.Z. Fell, proprietor, at your service.” Aziraphale was unable to suppress a beaming smile as he shook the man’s hand.

“Brian Epstein,” the man said, pronouncing it _Ep-stine._

“A pleasure.”

It was Aziraphale’s interest in the thousands of out-of-print plays and theatre-related books in the Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts’ expansive library that had initially tempted him to walk the half-mile to Chenies Street and investigate the collection. Upon his arrival, he’d found to his disappointment that the library was appointment-only. As it happened, as he was setting an appointment with the rotund librarian for three days hence, explaining that he was a collector of fine books seeking out interesting first editions and rare printings, a man emerged from a meeting room down the corridor and introduced himself firstly as a regular customer of A.Z. Fell & Co, and secondly as the school’s director, Mr. John Fernald. They’d chatted for a few moments; Mr. Fernald must have twigged rather quickly to the idea that Mr. Fell was no mere bookseller but a potential financial patron of the school, for he promptly invited the bow-tied man along with him to his next appointment, where he could see some of the students in action.

Aziraphale was ushered out of the library, across Gower Street to RADA’s main building, and up a set of wide stairs into a small rehearsal theatre, where an assembled group of students and instructors had gathered to watch the final performance of Chekhov’s _The Seagull_ by the first-year class. 

The play wasn’t exactly one of his favorites, but of course he couldn’t help but admire the array of young talent on display, rendering the Russian’s words with fervor and diction. Throughout the first two acts he placed bets with himself on which of the youths before him he’d likely be watching tread the boards of the West End for the next half-century; by the middle of Act III there was a clear front-runner. The boy playing the tragic Konstantin was tremendous; his monologue as he ripped the bandage from his head and raged at his mother Arkadina thundered through the small theatre and shook Aziraphale to his very core. It was passionate, raw, almost frightening.

Before Act IV Aziraphale had checked his pocketwatch, and upon realizing he was late to meet with Crowley had politely recused himself, but on the way to St. James’ Park thoughts of the tortured immediacy of that Konstantin had played about his mind on an endless loop. He wished he’d been able to stay and meet the cast afterwards, find out the young boy’s name— surely, going by that performance, he was someone Aziraphale would want to be able to say he’d known back when.

“That’s awfully kind of you, Mr. Fell,” said Brian, who’d been receiving Aziraphale’s adulation with a small smile. “But I’m afraid I must disappoint you with some news. I’ve just decided last night to discontinue my studies at RADA. I’ll be informing Mr. Fernald of my decision shortly.” 

Aziraphale’s face fell. “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.”

“It’s all right,” said Brian. His countenance was closed-off, drawn tightly together like blackout curtains against some internal Blitz. “I’ll be going back to Liverpool, to work for my father.”

As the representative of Heaven who’d likely clocked up the most hours spent amongst humans since the Beginning, Aziraphale was probably the world’s leading expert at any given time on recognizing lost souls out in the wild. And certainly, there was something lost about this boy, something that tugged at angelic instincts and demanded further examination. Perhaps it was in the way he held himself, or his calm, even tone, but Aziraphale realized that the frenzied anger Brian had brought to the stage as Konstantin was not the product of theatrical talent, as he’d so gamely assumed, but instead a manifestation of something deeper, rawer. He had not been _acting_ then; certainly, it seemed more likely that he was acting _now,_ constraining himself to the form that Aziraphale saw before him, buttoned-up and smoothed-out.

Casually, Aziraphale asked Brian what had brought him to the neighborhood.

“I’m meeting my cousin for lunch,” said Brian. “Down the street. But I was early, so I was just wandering about... I’ve been working at Ascroft and Dawes, the paperback shop, but they’ve cut my hours ahead of Easter. I suppose I thought I’d see if anyone was hiring.” 

He looked around, clearly noting the lack of other customers. “Though I hope you don’t mind me saying, it doesn’t seem like you’re in need of any assistance on the floor.”

Aziraphale’s decision was made before he opened his mouth. “Actually,” he said, “I do most of my business as a private dealer. I have quite a few appointments in these next few weeks with important clients, and I do believe I’ll be needing the help of a discreet auxiliary with plenty of retail experience.” 

And so it was done. For two weeks, between the end of term on March the 30th and April the 14th, when Brian returned home to Liverpool to spend the Passover holiday with his family, he assisted the kindly Mr. Fell with stocking, sales, and acquisitions during the busy spring season at A.Z. Fell & Co. 

They found that they had a tremendous amount in common. Mr. Fell, appearing as he did to be roughly a quarter-century Brian’s senior, naturally shared the younger man’s affinity for classical music, and would let him pick out Mozart concertos from his not-immodest collection of long-playing records to spin on the shop’s luxuriant, top-of-the-line hi-fi system. To Brian’s delight, Mr. Fell was also quite conversant in the lexicon of showtunes and musicals; Brian would often catch him humming selections from _My Fair Lady_ as he flipped through the large auction house catalogs that would arrive from overseas every morning.

Mr. Fell was well-heeled, well-traveled; a man of means and taste who seemingly had sampled every cuisine the world over. Brian could name a city, and the shopkeeper would reel off a list of recommendations spanning each neighborhood, each back alley and hidden courtyard. He had an encyclopedic knowledge of the theatre, quoting Shakespeare from memory and engaging Brian in ardent, irreverent conversations on Ibsen and O’Neill. Mr. Fell could easily have been one of his professors at RADA, or perhaps, were he thirty years younger, one of his eager-to-please classmates, devoted with the brilliant intensity Brian felt himself sorely lacking in to the fair art of the stage. But then again, it was hard to picture Mr. Fell in any profession other than bookselling; he was so at home in his shop that Brian was nearly sure he’d grown out of its floor fully formed. Certainly, it seemed unlikely that Mr. Fell had ever been Brian’s age. There was something timeless about him, something that Brian, however unconsciously, attempted over those two weeks to mimic, a preternatural wisdom and polish that seemed to act like a protective barrier against any accusations of impropriety that Brian couldn’t help but imagine might befall a man of Mr. Fell’s affect.

Aziraphale, for his part, enjoyed having help around the shop for the first time since he’d employed an eager young Mary Shelley during the particularly fast-moving summer of 1814. Brian was a diligent worker, and interesting company. It had been a while since Aziraphale had spent an extended period of time around a single human; his conscience, over the years, had grown quite strong enough to give him pause before embarking on any kind of long-term friendship with a person who he’d be forced to see grow old and fade away within the blink of an angelic eye. 

And besides, his recent reconciliation with Crowley during the war had caused a not-insignificant shift in the general allotment of his leisure time. Even after sixteen years of renewed companionship, there was somehow still quite a lot to catch the demon up on, what with him having slept through much of the last century and all. So really, there was hardly time these days to associate with mortals, dawdling around gentlemen’s clubs or sitting on the board of the London Booksellers’ Association and so forth, not when the Arrangement had started back up again and he had frequent double duty to contend with, alongside a business to run and so many new restaurants to try, often enough with the demon himself in tow. 

In any case, knowing all too well the impossibility of genuine friendship, he’d managed to convince himself that young Mr. Epstein, with his bouts of opaque, taciturn silence and piercing gaze, was not quite a friend but a _project_ , something to work at, like a book-binding or a tax form. Aziraphale was, of course, far too wary of attracting unwanted attention from Upstairs to perform any outright miracles on behalf of this young lad, but there was nothing wrong with _talking,_ was there? And oh, it was delightful to have someone to talk to, someone erudite and witty who _didn’t_ necessitate constant looking over of the shoulders and sneaking about, as was the case with Crowley. Of course, the angel had to be careful not to go any further back in his reminiscings to Brian than would be expected of a fifty-year-old human, though it disappointed him bitterly to not be able to recount his misadventure backstage at the premiere of _The Mikado_ in 1885. Crowley had gotten so tired of that one, and Aziraphale really thought it demanded new ears.

At the end of Brian’s short-term employment, Aziraphale sent him away with a paycheck, a bottle of Chateau Margaux from his collection, and best wishes for his return to Liverpool. He wondered what would happen to to the boy; if he’d change his mind about continuing on at RADA, or if he’d return to the Epstein family business as he’d spoken about. He wondered if the tightness and precariousness that swam about Brian would ever resolve itself into clarity.

Aziraphale decided, with the conscientiousness that could only come with six thousand years of angelic experience, that he’d done as much as he could by bringing Brian under his wing (ha) for even just a short time. He trusted that if there was more to be done, then the ineffable hand of the Almighty would bring them back together, and the proper course of action would suggest itself once more. 

 

**1961**

 

At seven o’clock on an October evening in Seville, the sun was yet higher in the sky than it would be at the same hour back in England. Aziraphale had long found that autumn was the best time to travel to the Mediterranean; just far enough from home to be refreshing, but not so that the return back to London weather would bear down too hard on the soul. 

The rooftop patio of the Andalusian _ristorante_ was alive with activity. Adjacent to the balcony, overlooking the crenellations and gables of the Mudéjar courtyards and church spires, a flamenco guitarist accompanied a woman in red as she sang and clapped her way through an _alegría._ Couples danced on the parquet floor, set aside from the dining area by a row of mosaic planters bursting with fragrant rosemary. There was a long mahogany bar next to the dance floor, and those patrons too drunk or not drunk enough to dance leaned against it, chatting, sipping their sherry. Around Aziraphale sat tourists and locals, crowded against the small tables, admiring the sunset as they stirred their gazpacho. 

Aziraphale had just tucked into his second course, savoring the flavors of the _carrillada_ against the dark notes of his glass of Olorosa, when a movement near the patio entrance caught his eye. Lingering near the door, drink in hand, was a man in a dark blue suit and neatly combed hair. He was looking out across the patio; searching for someone, perhaps, or just enjoying the view. 

Aziraphale raised his hand in a wave, catching Brian’s attention. 

“I should have known,” Brian said, striding over. “Who else, but Mr. Fell?” 

Aziraphale rose from his seat to shake Brian’s hand, delighting in this coincidence. “Wonderful to see you, Brian! Please, sit— unless, you’re waiting for someone?”

They caught up over a large serving of _cazón en adobo_. Aziraphale had little to report, his routine more or less unchanged since 1957. He was far more interested in hearing what Brian had been up to.

As Brian began to detail his successes as proprietor of one of Liverpool’s most popular music stores, the Whitechapel branch of Nems, there was pride in his voice. He’d taken his failure to complete his education as an actor and turned it into fuel, transforming a minor element of the Epstein family business into an endeavor known as the most well-stocked record department in the North, practically a site of holy pilgrimage for miles around. 

But something else had changed, too.

It was easy enough to guess what had happened. The shyness and uncertainty that had surrounded Brian during his stint at A.Z. Fell & Co had metamorphosed, metastasized, rooted down deep within him and spread thick like bramble, choking out the sun from above. He’d come to Spain alone, a six-week solo trip spurred on by what he claimed was the spirit of adventure and a growing interest in bullfighting, but was clearly far more motivated by a desire to escape _from_ than to escape _to._ There was a nervousness about his hands, a tremor suppressed; and looking closely, Aziraphale noticed light bruising on his neck, reaching out from under his collar like a stain.

Aziraphale had spent centuries indulging in the pleasures of human society, and so he knew that no matter what grain one’s tendencies went against, what barriers any given society put up, it was always theoretically _possible_ to find happiness, peace. He’d seen it in Mesopotamia, Ancient Rome, in medieval France. He saw it every day in London, even, for it was everywhere when you knew where to look. But for some, the problem went beyond what faced them in the world. It was interior, baked into the bone; Brian was simply missing whatever it was that would have allowed him to let himself free.

Further courses were served; more sherry and more olives. Aziraphale listened as Brian described the complicated stocking system of his Nems record department, which involved catalog numbers, cards, paperclips, bits of string, and the endless checking and re-checking, ordering and re-ordering of a nigh-infinite inventory in order to satisfy every potential customer in every possible way. 

“You mean,” asked Aziraphale, his horror near absolute, “even if it takes you months, you’ll get any record that _anybody_ comes in and asks for? Even just one person, asking for something you’ve never heard of?” 

“Precisely.” 

Suppressing a shudder, Aziraphale supposed he had to be glad that his own style of shopkeeping had utterly failed to rub off on the young man. In fact, he considered, it was quite possible that Brian’s determination to achieve maximum customer satisfaction was not only the product of his family training, but a direct reaction formation against Mr. Fell’s ongoing eccentric rejection of retail standards. 

“Enough about work. We’re both off the clock. How are you liking Seville? Have you seen much of Santa Cruz yet? This little square, the most _fantastic_ architecture, history all crammed up against itself— it used to be the Jewish quarter, the ghetto.”

“You know, I’m Jewish,” Brian said, and then perhaps it was some flicker across Aziraphale’s face, a phantom of self-recognition in the other that caused Brian’s hand to tighten imperceptibly around the stem of his glass as he said, quietly:

“And may I ask, are you…?” 

“I… It could be said that I’m of a Biblical persuasion,” Aziraphale said. “It’s, er. In the family, you know.” This was rather as accurate as he could get in mixed company, but it seemed to satisfy Brian, who smiled one of his inscrutable smiles and continued on along his original line of thought. 

“Yes, I did see Santa Cruz, and San Bartolomé,” Brian said. “Yesterday afternoon, after the most wonderful bullfight _._ I was wandering back to my hotel and fell in behind a group of Americans. A synagogue tour group of some sort.”

Aziraphale couldn’t help but smile at the thought of prim Brian tagging along beside a flock of squawking New Yorkers, with their satchels and Brownie cameras. 

“This is where it all began, you know,” Brian continued. “The Spanish Inquisition. Started right here in Seville. The tour guide was speaking of the violence, the massacres, and the expulsions, the conversions, but I found I could hardly picture it. It seemed impossible, really. All I could think of was the joy I’ve found in this city, the food and the wine and the toreadors…” 

His enunciation was exact, his posture impeccable, as always, but there was something uncomfortably undone about the way he was gesticulating across the table; Aziraphale realized that he was, in fact, quite drunk. The man in front of him seemed infinitely distant from the boy who’d helped shelve books in Soho; as if in 1957 he’d tried to set the anchor down dutifully but found the seabed dropping away beneath him to nothingness, leaving him unmoored.

“If I had been born here, back then,” Brian said, and then stopped, leaving the immensity of the hypothetical unsaid. _If, if, if._ The fragility of his existence as a function of time and place was a vast incomprehensibility; nearly as unlikely as the presence of an angel across the table from him on that warm Andalusian night.

Aziraphale quickly picked up the thread of the conversation and re-strung it in a more lighthearted direction. They discussed the weather in Liverpool, the weather in London; Mr. Fell’s ongoing attempt to acquire a First Folio, and Brian’s schedule for the rest of his holiday.

“I plan to attend another _corrida_ tomorrow evening,” Brian said, contemplatively. “They are truly tremendous, Mr. Fell. Such strength. Such grace. If you’d care to accompany me, I’m sure it would be a life-changing experience for you.” 

“I’m due back in London in the morning,” said Aziraphale. “This was just a weekend jaunt, I’m afraid. Couldn’t go a single second longer without authentic _tapas,_ but you know how it is. Books to be sold.” 

It was agreed, by the end of the evening, that Mr. Fell would make a visit to Nems in Liverpool later in the month, once Brian had returned from Spain, and receive a tour of the premises. 

They said goodbye to each other on the street outside; Brian made no mention of where he was off to next, but the night had grown dark and his eyes had grown wanting. Aziraphale wanted to tell him to be _careful_ , but oh, it was bad enough that they’d run into each other here and he’d found himself wanting badly to _help_ again, not without making Brian uncomfortable by treating him like a child.

They parted, but then Brian called back over his shoulder: “Fell. Short for Feldman, then?”

Aziraphale smiled. “Something like that.” 

 

***

 

The drink the girl at the counter had prepared was a thin, watery lemonade, but its constituent molecules quickly rearranged themselves into a top-shelf whiskey upon entering the grasp of the demon Crowley.

It was curious. The atmosphere of this place was familiar, almost terrifyingly so: scummy, dark, and damp, with condensation running down the walls from the heat of the bodies packed tightly inside. The scent was nearly unbearable, rotten vegetables and body odor and nicotine; noise echoing all around at head-ringing volumes. All combined, it really ought to have sent Crowley running up the stairs, gasping for fresh air, rejecting the sense-memory of Hell swimming through his system— but somehow, with nearly the same ingredients, the recipe had come out tasting improbably _sweet._ Crowley didn’t like to admit it to himself, for it was unseemly for a demon, but he did, in fact, know from holy, and he couldn’t deny that this place, this grimy, dirty cellar, was somehow bursting at the seams with sheer _sanctity._

He’d been sent to Liverpool earlier in the week to accomplish a minor smattering of temptations, mostly the usual sort of thing for a port town. It was important to Head Office for the sailors to be reliably drunken and violent, for the women to be wanton, and for the children to be smoking a pack a day by age eleven. 

The plan was, that morning before heading back to London, to do a recce of the local record shop in order to pick up some of the eclectic imports he’d heard could be found in Liverpool. As much as he’d come to appreciate Aziraphale’s collection, it had its blind spots, and Crowley was eager to get his hands on the newest releases from Chicago’s legendary Chess Records. 

Parking the Bentley in a space at the curb that hadn’t been there a moment prior, he’d exited the car and entered Nems, where the posh man at the sales counter in the lower-level pop department was only too happy to furnish him with a number of glossy long-players, their brightly-colored covers offering tantalizing previews of the sonic marvels within.

He’d set his purchases down carefully in the backseat of the car, but as he walked around to the drivers-side door a strange sound had caught his ear. From further down the street, a deep, low rumble had begun. It refused resolutely to focus itself into understandable detail, so Crowley was forced to follow it to its source, down a dark set of stairs into Liverpool’s very own Cavern Club. 

And now, up on stage, he was watching the boys in leather crack wise about the bra sizes of the girls in the front row. The girls didn’t seem to mind; in fact, they were giggling to each other, almost hysterical with joy as the older-looking of the two guitar players swaggered around, pulling rude faces and chewing his cheese sandwich directly into the microphone. 

The baby-faced bassist motioned to the coiffed drummer, and they launched into the opening bars of a body-shaking tune Crowley recognized as Little Richard’s “Long Tall Sally.” The girls practically shrieked in orgiastic delight as the bassist crooned into the microphone, which was shining with sweat and saliva in the harsh lights of the stage. 

Crowley was utterly captivated. He’d liked to have thought himself well-versed in rock and roll, but this band was playing songs he’d never heard, B-sides and even some originals, scattered amongst hits like “Besame Mucho” and such classics as “The Sheik of Araby.” They were electric, stomping across the stage in big black boots, wrenching chords out of their instruments with such gusto Crowley feared the roof of the club would come collapsing down on all of them. Not a bad way to go, mind, if it meant he could be listening to those howling harmonies as he went.

“Excuse me,” Crowley said, leaning across the snack counter towards the girl who’d handed him the lemonade-no-longer. Her cat-eye glasses glinted amidst the dimness of the club. “But I’ve got to know— who _are_ these fellows?” 

“They’re the Beatles,” the girl said, her voice a grateful squeal, as if she were asked this question dozens of times a day and never once got tired of answering. “Aren’t they _marvelous?”_

“Absolutely incredible. I’m just in from London— I’ve never heard anything like it.” 

“It’s the Merseyside sound,” said the girl, proudly. “We’ve got nearly three hundred beat groups in Liverpool alone. Bill Harry counted ‘em. He runs _Mersey Beat,”_ she added helpfully, “the newspaper. Music reviews and such.” 

Crowley raised his eyebrows, his curiosity quite heavily piqued. “And would a lovely lady like you happen to know where I can purchase an issue of said paper?” 

The girl blushed. “Just down the street, they’ve got them— at Nems, the record store. You know it?” 

“I do indeed.” 

Crowley managed, with some difficulty, to tear himself away from the throbbing scene in the club and walk the two hundred steps or so back to the shop. Near the front he spotted the fabled stack of _Mersey Beat_ magazines, on sale for threepence, and he picked up a copy and walked with it back to the sales counter. He’d just handed over the coins when, quite unexpectedly, he heard his name called from somewhere behind him.

“Crowley?” 

He turned around. There, in the flesh, was Aziraphale, standing next to the sharp-suited man who’d sold him his new records not an hour ago.

“A friend of yours, Mr. Fell?” said the man. Crowley couldn’t help but aim a smirk in Aziraphale’s direction. Palling around with a human, really? In _Liverpool,_ of all places? 

“Er, well, you might say—” Aziraphale stammered. Crowley’s smirk only grew. The day the angel ever had the courage to admit to a third party that he _knew_ Crowley, let alone was _friends_ with him, would probably be the day the world ended. 

The man reached over to shake Crowley’s hand, ever so polite, and introduced himself as Brian Epstein, manager of Nems. 

“Anthony Crowley,” said Crowley. “We met, earlier—” 

“Yes, you bought the Muddy Waters record,” Epstein said. “I knew that one would be a good seller. We were the only record store in the whole of the North to still have it in stock after a week.” 

He must have spotted that the only thing Crowley was holding was the copy of _Mersey Beat,_ because he asked: “Didn’t lose track of your purchases already, then?” 

“They’re in my car.” Crowley pointed out the shop window at the Bentley, somehow gleaming even in the absence of direct sunlight.

Epstein did a double take. “Ohh! That’s _your_ car? My goodness—”

“Come on,” said Crowley, pleased as punch. “Go out and give it a look.” 

He guided Epstein out the door and to the car, Aziraphale trailing reluctantly behind. 

“It’s _beautiful,”_  Epstein hummed, inspecting the shining fender. “Thirty-one?” 

“Thirty-three,” said Crowley. He shot Aziraphale a look. _See, someone appreciates true craftsmanship._

“I’ve got a Zephyr Zodiac myself, currently,” said Epstein, “but oh, a Bentley… One day, I’d like to buy one right off the assembly line. How does it handle?” 

“Drives like a dream,” said Crowley. 

Aziraphale was growing visibly uncomfortable at this exchange. Of course, it could be, and often was, fun to watch him squirm, but only ever for a little while. Any longer and Crowley would start to feel the highly unbecoming urge to give him a back rub. 

So, thinking quick, Crowley clapped a hand onto the angel’s shoulder and gave a subtle _let’s get out of here_ nod.

“Brian, if you’ll excuse us,” Aziraphale said, mildly relieved. “I’ll see you at the Magic Clock at eight, as planned.” 

“And you can look, but don’t touch!” Crowley instructed Epstein, as the man lingered by the Bentley at the curb. 

They walked down to the waterfront. The Mersey was gray under the late October sky; the squat skyline of Birkenhead piercing its way up through the gray smog that lay thick across the river. The air was rich with rust and sulfur, the metallic groans of machinery, the low roar of the living city.

“Your friend, Epstein. I think he was flirting with me.”

Aziraphale let the faintest smile play around the edges of his mouth. “ _De gustibus non disputandum est.”_

“Poor bugger. He’s damned.” 

“Excuse me?” 

Crowley shrugged. “I can smell it on him. Things aren’t gonna go his way. How’d’you know him, anyways?”

“He worked in my shop, for a little while. Five years ago, perhaps. Thought I’d give him a bit of a spiritual leg up. But I don’t think it stuck.”

Aziraphale explained to Crowley about the encounter in Seville, and his sense that Brian was in danger of being lost at sea, so to speak.

“Angel, look at yourself. You’re getting attached.”

Aziraphale looked put off. “I am not. I’m just... _concerned._ ”

“Didn’t you get over this back in 1349? That pretty boy who brought you mead, dying of the plague?”

“This isn’t like that.” Aziraphale sighed. He looked out across the water. Massive ships were heaving themselves across the surface of the harbor, belching smoke. A ferry’s horn sounded, breaking the silence between the angel and the demon.  “I just wish there was something I could _do_ for him. Something small, that wouldn’t attract attention from Head Office…”

And he made that _face,_ oh, that sad, small little face, the one that never failed to set Crowley’s mind ablaze with thoughts of how to get it gone, how to fix it, how to make everything alright again. 

So Crowley thought intently about the man who’d so ably sold him a stack of albums; he thought and he thought and then he realized he was still holding onto his threepence copy of _Mersey Beat,_ volume 1, issue 4. He quickly opened it, flipped through its newsprint pages, looking, _looking—_

And yes, there it was. A small square advert, reading _THE BEATLES AT THE CAVERN CLUB - LUNCHTIMES._ Today’s date, Friday 27 October, listed the 11 a.m. session, the one Crowley had just attended, plus a second set at 12:15 p.m. Crowley checked his watch, and smiled. 

“Come on, angel.” Crowley started back up towards the street, beckoning Aziraphale along, folding the newspaper away into his breast pocket. 

“Where are we going?” 

“Somewhere special.” 

Crowley felt almost guilty leading Aziraphale down into the Cavern. The thought of the acrid, organic stench of the place embedding itself in Aziraphale’s pristine overcoat was pressing itself unhelpfully against his conscience. This, he hoped dearly, would be the closest the angel _ever_ got to experiencing what it was like to take the trip Downstairs. 

Aziraphale turned to Crowley, presumably to offer some disparaging comment on the ambience, but instead his mouth dropped open in surprise.

“Crowley! Did you just manifest _new_ _clothes_?” 

It wasn’t as if he could deny it. A moment ago, at street level, Crowley had been dressed in a snappy black suit, complete with slim tie and fedora. But in the few seconds they’d been ensconced by the darkness of the stairwell, Crowley’s outfit had changed completely to a near-mirror image of the ones worn by the boys on stage. Cotton t-shirt, leather jacket, leather pants and heeled boots, all in black— of course, every inch looking expensive, sparkling clean and brand-new, unlike the band’s cheap, mussed and weatherbeaten versions. His hat was gone, and his auburn hair had been pushed down over his forehead in an avant-garde Parisian swoop.

“Come on,” said Crowley. “You can’t tell me I don’t look _hip.”_

“I wouldn’t tell _anyone_ that.” 

It was a quarter past noon. Crowley and Aziraphale settled themselves at a table near the back of the crowded club, and the boys in black reemerged, clutching dripping bottles of Coca-Cola, to a huge wave of applause from the assembled crowd. It was an equal spread between boys and girls, Crowley noted, but he couldn’t spot anyone over the age of twenty-five (present company excluded). 

And then the band began to play. Crowley watched Aziraphale carefully for his reaction, as the opening licks of “Dizzy Miss Lizzy” beat over them like a riptide. He sighed as the inevitable occurred; the angel’s nose wrinkled and he gave Crowley a sidelong glance full of utter skepticism. 

“Look,” Crowley said, “these lads are incredible. They could be _massive._ But they’re stuck down here in this _cave._ It’s not right! The way I see it, they need a miracle just as much as your friend. They’re a perfect match. He’s got the money, the know-how. They’ve got the talent. All they need is a little _push_ , to bring them together, see?”

“Rock and roll? _Really,_ Crowley? No, I’m afraid I know Mr. Epstein far better than you do. We have quite similar tastes, you see, he’s a great appreciator of the classics. Brahms, Bach. He may _sell_ pop records in his shop, but I can’t possibly see how a group like this could play a role in improving his life.”

“Aziraphale, _trust_ me on this.” 

The angel looked wildly unconvinced. Crowley sighed. He was going to have to bring out the big guns. 

“You owe me one,” Crowley said. “Hamlet, remember?” 

Aziraphale gave an outraged wiggle. “This isn’t _Shakespeare,_ my dear, this is— this is— rebellion! _”_

“Not rebellion,” said Crowley. “ _Revolution._ ”

He nudged Aziraphale’s attention back to the stage. They were playing a slower tune now, a ballad; the frenzy had fractionally subdued, enough so that the vocal of the bass player came through clean and clear, all the way down the center of the club to where they were sitting. And Aziraphale shifted in his seat, listening, thinking, and Crowley watched the doubt slowly drain, watched the angel’s face soften...

_“There was love all around, but I never heard it singing… No, I never heard it at all, till there was you.”_

 

***

 

At the heart of it, really, was the unfairness of it all. Aziraphale had had six thousand years to come to terms with who he was; the process was far from complete, but there was no reason to suspect he wouldn’t have six thousand more to get to where he was going. If Brian could have that long, could even have a fraction of that long, Aziraphale felt sure that he could survive, could bloom, could _become._

That wasn’t how it worked, though. Crowley had said it himself: the man was damned. And if not _damned,_ in the biblical sense, then certainly doomed, in the practical. Brian didn’t have anyone, not in the way Aziraphale had Crowley...

But it wasn’t like that— Aziraphale didn’t _have_ Crowley, no, he couldn’t ever think that way— it’s just that Crowley was _there,_ he was always there, and even when a hundred years would go by and there’d be no word from him, the thought of those dark glasses in Aziraphale’s mind stayed a holding place for everything he’d ever wanted to say but couldn’t bear to. The mere image of Crowley was a precious conduit, one he’d have long since been lost without, lost as Brian, with his nice car, his successful shop, his desperation ever-deepening and threatening to sink him where he stood.

So, then— certainly, it was possible. The band could be what Brian needed, for as long as he could stand it, for as long as they could bear. Those young bodies, those throbbing souls— potential sites of transformation, changing everything Brian held so dangerously close to himself to pure energy, dissipating it out of himself and into the world, manifesting into music, into light, into joy. Aziraphale knew this, as deeply and surely as he knew that he’d likely have never started his bookshop if it wasn’t for the promise of having a place that Crowley could always find him, no matter what.

Aziraphale stayed in Liverpool through the next morning to set the miracle in action. It was like playing a musical instrument, he’d always thought; timing, rhythm, and tone were just as essential as the lyrics and melody, so to speak. And despite the fact that this was an uncommissioned miracle, one he had no intention of reporting to Head Office and might very well be reprimanded by them for if they found out, he still needed it to be done _right._

He’d decided on a plan of action that incorporated Brian’s pride at his stocking system and customer satisfaction guarantee. From across the street, tartan thermos of tea warming his hands against the autumnal chill, the angel watched a parade of Liverpudlians pass by the doors to Nems. He let his extra-sensory angelic perception drift in front of him like a cloud, extending outwards and transmitting back to him the relative fitness of each candidate for the moment he had in mind. And then— yes, there, _that one._

Carefully, making sure Brian didn’t catch sight of him, Aziraphale followed the young boy into the store and watched as he approached the counter where Brian stood. He couldn’t hear what the boy asked, but he didn’t need to; he asked what Aziraphale wanted him to ask. A simple, miraculous question that would set the wheels of fate in motion. 

_“Have you got the new one from the Beatles, then?”_

 

**1962**

 

“Eppy, why’ve you brought me to a haunted library?” 

The voice from the front of the shop was pointed, pitched and clear; a young voice, sharp around the edges.

“I used to work here, John. It’s a bookshop. We’ll be on our way, I just wanted to say hello to—”

Aziraphale stepped out from the back with a smile. “Brian, what a lovely surprise!” 

He hadn’t seen him since that day in Liverpool, over a year ago; Brian looked more or less the same, his perfectly tailored suit now covered with a beautiful gray woolen coat against the December chill. But there was a calmness and grace about him that hadn’t been present in Spain or in Liverpool, a deep contentedness that went beyond pride and marked something like _purpose_.

Brian nodded to the young man beside him; tall and thin and rather wise-looking, mischievous eyes crouched behind heavy lids. “This is my old friend, Mr. Fell. Mr. Fell, this is John Lennon. Singer of—”

“The Beatles, yes!” said Aziraphale. “Brian’s written me all about you, dear boy.” 

Lennon gave Aziraphale an inscrutable once-over, some mechanism clicking on inside his head. He looked back to Brian and said, “Ah, the original.” 

“The original what?” Aziraphale asked. 

Lennon wiggled his hands behind Brian’s head. “He’s the _Immaculate Deception,_ don’t you know. That’s what all the ladies call him back home. You teach him everything you know, then?” 

Brian cleared his throat, a little too loudly, letting Lennon’s uncomfortable implication go unacknowledged. He walked with Aziraphale deeper into the shop, and left Lennon lingering by the poetry display.

“We’re just in town visiting their new publishers,” said Brian, explaining why he’d stopped by. “I’ve got Dick James representing John there and his writing partner Paul McCartney, for the single EMI will be releasing in the New Year. ‘Please Please Me,’ it’s called. The offices are just around the corner, so I thought I’d say hello...” 

“Yes, of course,” said Aziraphale. “You know you’re always welcome here—”

The phone rang in the back room. Aziraphale was expecting a call from Crowley so he quickly excused himself; the demon didn’t have much to say beyond _I’ll see you at seven_ but Aziraphale had been waiting all day to hear his voice so it was all right, really.

The angel reemerged into the bookshop proper, if only to offer Brian and his friend some tea; they acquiesced and Aziraphale slipped away again, leaving the two of them to continue their perusal of the shop. 

Before he brought the tea out, Aziraphale looked past the maze of bookshelves towards the front of the shop, to where Brian was now leaning against a table, watching Lennon thumb his way through a thick red copy of _Finnegan’s Wake._ The boy was all angles and wicked grins; he said something over his shoulder to Brian that Aziraphale couldn’t hear, but he saw the way Brian flinched away from what must have been another cruel barb, and then leaned back in again as though pulled by a magnet. Brian’s eyes were locked onto the shiny back of Lennon’s head, following its movements around the shelves with desperate intent.

And then they all sat for a bit, Brian catching up Mr. Fell on the intricacies of the recording business that he’d been having to learn as he went, Lennon paying little attention to the conversation but instead doodling away in a small notepad he’d pulled from his pocket. After only a few minutes Brian checked his watch and declared they had to be getting on.

“We’re due at EMI House, for an appearance on Radio Luxembourg,” Brian said, not at all apologetically— he was quite obviously proud of the band’s packed schedule, of their brand-new publishing contract, of their tour dates and fans across the country and the sense, obvious enough from Brian’s letters, that things were going very, very well so far. 

Mr. Fell waved goodbye to his guests; platitudes were exchanged, Aziraphale wishing Brian and John the best of luck with the new song, Brian promising dinner after the holidays when he was back in London.

At the door, Lennon handed Aziraphale a scrap of paper. On it was scratched a delightful caricature of the angel, his hair poking up from his head in thin lines, his bow-tie enlarged comically atop a cartoonish, stretched-out body. It could easily have been mocking, but it wasn’t; Aziraphale could sense the affection in each wiggle of ink. He’d signed it with a scribble in the bottom corner, below the legend “The Won & Lonely Mr. Fell.” 

“You’ve got a lovely shop,” he said, and he sounded sincere. “I’ll be writing books one day. Would be an honor, to have them sold in a place like this.”

Then the two of them were gone, down the crowded Soho street, breath misting into the cold air, mingling above their heads into a single cloud. Aziraphale watched and he sighed and he felt as if, for a moment, he had discorporated completely, he was out of his own body, feeling the weight of Brian’s love for John Lennon as if it was his own, all its familiar curves of loyalty and desperation and impossibility and fear and pure, sheer _hope._

Aziraphale could have asked himself what a man like Brian saw in a man like Lennon; what pulled him always closer to a soul in whose very nature it was to draw small, dangerous darknesses into the world. But he didn't have to. He already knew. 

 

***

 

Aziraphale saw Brian a few more times in the new year, but by the time he moved his offices mere blocks away from A.Z. Fell & Co., it had become quite apparent that he had more than enough to be getting on with as the most famous music manager in the country, and could not spare the hours for his old friend the bookseller. The friendly letters which had started to be exchanged after Mr. Fell’s visit to Liverpool became less and less frequent as the Beatles’ singles rose further up the charts and then stuck there, permanently, at the top.

Which was fine, really. Perhaps even for the best. Aziraphale was more than content to follow the story at a distance, returning himself to his usual comfortable remove from individual human affairs; he’d already gotten too close, and it was only right that things proceed naturally. There would be a knock at the shop door, long after closing time; Crowley with the newest Beatles record in hand, not caring one bit how very little appreciation Aziraphale had for rock and roll. It was all still just noise to Aziraphale, really, but Crowley loved it, and Aziraphale loved how Crowley loved it, so he would sit there, patient, watching the demon bob his head, his yellow eyes closed in bliss behind his shades. And Crowley would have the latest news on the band, as well— they’d played the Palladium, they’d gone to America, they’d broken this sales record and that one too— so it was in this secondhand way that Aziraphale traced the tremendous trajectory of his small miracle. 

 

***

 

One day Aziraphale was returning back to the bookshop from a matinee at the Savoy, and he passed by an appliance shop. Rows of black-and-white televisions in the front window were all tuned to the same station, and Aziraphale had stopped in front of it before he realized why. On the screens, on all of the screens, were the Beatles, sat in a row. Multiplied over and over, four, sixteen, sixty-four.

It looked like they were being interviewed, but Aziraphale couldn’t hear what was being said through the glass. There was clearly someone offscreen, asking them questions; they weren’t taking it at all seriously, laughing and pushing at each other. And underneath the banter there was a strange undercurrent, something familiar... Aziraphale’s head was against the glass, trying to decipher what he was seeing.

Without the sound, it was easier than it would’ve been to understand— and he did understand, all at once. 

There was absolutely nobody on the planet who could understand what they were going through. Nobody at all. They only had each other, solid ground amidst a roaring river of change rushing past. And they were the same people they’d always been, only nobody would ever know that. The world could only see them for what they represented, what was expected of them, what they meant to others.

It was, Aziraphale imagined, the closest any human would ever get, in all of history, to knowing exactly how he and Crowley had felt, all these years. 

 

***

 

_4th November, 1965_

_Dearest Mr. Fell,_

_Thank you for your kind note regarding the MBEs received by the Beatles. I admire your feat of memory in noting that the ceremony was held only days prior to the four-year anniversary of your visit to Liverpool. I remember when you visited I was feeling quite adrift. Almost as if I was sitting around, waiting for a miracle to happen. It’s funny how so much can change in such a short time._

_I apologize for being a poor correspondent and a poorer friend. My business enterprises have grown so vast and so demanding that I find I hardly have a moment for myself, let alone friends and family._

_I trust everything is running smoothly at the bookshop. We will have to find time soon to reconnect. I feel you have much to teach me. Even if it takes a decade to find a moment of calm, I one day hope we can attend the theatre together, as we once planned to._

 

 _Best wishes,  
_ _Brian Epstein_

 

**1967**

 

Crowley had been gone from London for a few months; the whole of spring and deep into the summer. Not even the longest Aziraphale had gone without seeing him since ‘41, and an amount of time that would hardly have given him a second of pause before that fateful day in 1862— but oh, these days he _worried,_ he shouldn’t have but he _did,_ because they’d been spending an awful lot of time together and logically he _knew_ nobody was paying attention, no one at all, but if Hell ever found out...

It was August by the time the demon returned, sauntering through the door of A.Z. Fell & Co. at half past midnight, wearing a burnished velvet blazer, black as night, and glasses that were two dark circles, shaded versions of the style Aziraphale couldn’t help but notice had been popularized in recent months by one John Lennon. The hair, too, was familiar; Aziraphale wouldn’t let himself think on the subject further. 

“Crowley!” said Aziraphale, as the demon entered. It was wholly futile to keep the relief, the excitement, the gratitude out of his voice when he spoke the demon’s name; he attempted a quick save by switching to disapproval. “Where _have_ you been?” 

“America,” he said, by way of an answer.

“That’s not helpful,” said Aziraphale. “America’s a big place. Be specific.” 

“Haight-Ashbury,” Crowley said, sighing. “San Francisco. They had a whole thing going on over there. Summer of Love, they called it. Hippies gone wild. Plenty for me to do— pot running out just when you’ve sobered up and gotten ready for another hit, cops breaking up the concert in the park right before the band you want to see comes on, that sort of thing.”

“Ah, yes,” said Aziraphale knowledgeably. “Much of that here as well. Eight days in a row of different youngsters with long hair all coming in here and asking for _Alice In Wonderland._ And I had to rescue some poor girl sitting on the curb right outside from a— a ‘bad trip,’  I think her friends said it was.” 

They stood there. Aziraphale could have gone on, mentioned the couple he’d found having intercourse on the sofa near the Greek Philosophers shelf, but he thought that now was perhaps not the time for that anecdote.

“What’s that you’ve got?” he asked instead, because Crowley had been holding something this whole time, a dark square shape in the crook of his arm. 

The demon held it up. It was an LP, its colorful cover dotted with collaged faces. “New Beatles record,” he said. “Well, new-ish. Came out in June in America. _Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band_ — most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard.”

Aziraphale’s doubt must have shown on his face; Crowley moved closer to him, holding out the record, an offer, a plea, a code that the angel wanted desperately to decipher but didn’t have the tools to. 

“No, I’m serious. More beautiful than Beethoven. You did something so wonderful for the world, angel, you really did, when you brought Brian to them. I hope you know that. In San Francisco, everyone on the streets, dancing, I can’t even explain— I wished you were there. I wanted— I want you to—”

Aziraphale couldn’t possibly have brought himself to guess where Crowley was going with all of this. It was bad enough he was standing there, so close to Aziraphale in the dim after-hours light of the bookshop, smelling of incense and America, the glow of something like _gratitude_ lifting itself off of his skin and threatening Aziraphale’s every sense with torture. 

“I want you to hear it. Come on, angel, let’s listen.” 

They settled in across from each other by the hi-fi, and Crowley let the needle fall onto side A; the tuning of an orchestra transformed itself into a squealing guitar riff, and then the angel and the demon were swept away. The songs flowed into each other like constellations in the night sky, a landscape of horns and drums and harmonies that made the cacophony at the Cavern so many years ago seem like the cave paintings at Lascaux in comparison. 

It was a sorry state of things that neither of them knew, at that moment, that they were both desperately thinking the same thoughts, thinking of how their hands would feel pressed against each other’s; the angel unable to escape the idea of the warmth of Crowley’s skin under that black velvet, the demon overwhelmed by the concept of Aziraphale’s soft breath on his face. It was a surreal fervor courtesy of the frequencies issuing from the vinyl grooves, the very same mystical tones that had sent millions of young humans flocking to the parks of San Francisco and London that summer, broken free of all societal chains and ready to experience each others’ bodies with abandon.

They barely moved for forty minutes, as they listened. They did not speak. And by the time the opening chords of the last song stirred the still air, Aziraphale had the sense that something had shifted between him and Crowley, something indescribable, and true, and perhaps even ineffable.

_“I read the news today, oh boy… About a lucky man who made the grade.”_

 

***

 

Crowley had returned on a Thursday. The very next day, Aziraphale overheard some disturbing chatter at the cafe that he tried very hard to forget about. On Saturday there were two molls in miniskirts in a dark corner of the shop who muttered quite distinctly about _church_ and _heist_ and _that dashing Anthony, ooh._ And by Sunday it was very clear that Crowley was planning something utterly stupid and horribly dangerous.

He was going to ignore it. He was going to let Crowley go ahead with it. He really was. 

And then it was Monday, and Aziraphale was walking past the newsstand on the corner, and splashed across each and every paper, headlines lurid and glaring, were words that struck him to his very core: _EPSTEIN DIES AT 32. BEATLES BOSS DEAD._

His first thought was, _Oh, those poor boys. What will they do without him?_

And then his second thought, nearly simultaneous, was that of rejection, of incomprehension: _No. Impossible. I thought I’d saved him._

Brian was rebellious, Brian was brave, Brian found what he was looking for and it _still_ all went wrong, the universe still left him bereft in the end; Aziraphale had not even realized he’d been daydreaming of a time when the whole Beatles thing was over and done and Brian was retired and they could go to the Proms together, they could be _friends_ — but he _had_ been. The mistake he’d promised himself not to make. It had been too late, all along. 

And before he could stop himself, of course, he was thinking about Crowley. Twenty-six years since their reunion and they hadn’t once spoken about what had prompted the break in the first place, just picked back up again like it had been nothing. Aziraphale didn’t know what had given Crowley cause to resume his quest, but he imagined it must have been something that happened in America, some reminder of the fragility of the Arrangement, or some manifestation of the unearthly presence of Hell itself. (Certainly, the latter seemed likely. It was America, after all.) 

Aziraphale couldn’t stand it. He needed more _time,_ he could have taken millennia more to figure out exactly what he needed to say to Crowley and _how_ he would say it, because when he did say it he needed it to be perfect, he wouldn’t _get_ a second go— but Crowley was seemingly _so_ determined to do something _stupid_ before Aziraphale even got the chance. 

 Crowley had always thought too much, asked too many questions, made too many plans, it was why he had Fallen and it was why Aziraphale was terrified of him and it was why Aziraphale loved him, and it was what would be the end of them both. Because Aziraphale wanted to ask, now, too— _why?_ Why did it have to be this way? 

Aziraphale couldn’t lose him. The news, the terrible news about Brian— it all made the possibility too real. People were lost all the time. Before you could say goodbye. Before you could say _anything._  

And Brian was really gone. Not even a miracle could save a soul like that, in the end. But for a little while, he’d not been lost. He’d found himself in his work. Love as an act of service. The endless giving. The favors, the rescues, the sheer immensity of the _work_ done on behalf of the ones you hold dear, the silent promises you make and try your best to keep—

And oh, this whole time— the church, 1941. The Bastille, 1789. And every year for the past five, new record in hand, Crowley reaching out, setting the needle down, letting the music play, letting the melodies speak.

Aziraphale needed to show Crowley he _understood,_ he finally understood that there were ways to talk other than in words, he didn’t need to _say_ when there was something he could _do._

So he took his tartan thermos, emptied out the remnants of that morning’s tea in the sink, and filled it up again with tap water. All it took was a hand, waved over the open lid— the water shimmered momentarily with a blue-gold glow— and it was done. Holy water, blessed by an angel. The holiest. 

Then he watched the bookshop window until, late in the evening, he recognized one of the girls from Saturday walking past; he followed her unobserved until she ducked into a dingy restaurant. 

The Bentley was parked outside, unoccupied. Aziraphale opened the door, sat down in the passenger seat, and waited for Crowley, holy water in hand. And it felt odd, him being the one to surprise the demon with an appearance like this; Aziraphale was so used to being sought out, called up. But tonight, it felt right. 

He leaned over, switched on the radio. He didn’t know how long Crowley would be in there, and he’d forgotten to bring a book. 

And out of the speakers came a familiar voice. Aziraphale had never really learned to tell them apart, that was more Crowley’s area, but surely it was a Beatle’s voice, plaintive, beautiful, speaking to him directly, it seemed, from somewhere deep inside a demon’s well-kept car. 

  

 

 

> _I want to tell you / My head is filled with things to say / When you're here / All those words, they seem to slip away_  
>  _When I get near you / The games begin to drag me down / It's all right / I'll make you maybe next time around_  
>  _But if I seem to act unkind / It's only me, it's not my mind / That is confusing things  
>  I want to tell you / I feel hung up but I don't know why / I don't mind / I could wait forever, I've got time_ 

 

 

 

 

_****_

**Author's Note:**

> sample of my thought process immediately before deciding to write this: hm crowley is dressed like john lennon in the 1967 scene…. wait brian epstein died in 1967….……. wait oh nooooooooooooooooo
> 
> anyway the timeline is fairly accurate, down to the day. Brian really did spend Easter break of 1957 working at a secondhand bookshop in London. (yes, I screamed when I found that out) 
> 
> Aziraphale’s observation on the similarities between the Beatles’ bond and the one between him & Crowley is a straight adaptation of an all-too-real quote given by Michael Sheen in the Good Omens companion book (also caused a scream, michael plz)
> 
> Sources!!!!!!! shout out 2 the LA Public Library :-) 
> 
> Mark Lewisohn - Tune In: The Beatles: All These Years Vol. 1 (2013)  
> Ray Coleman - The Man Who Made The Beatles (1989)  
> Debbie Geller - In My Life: The Brian Epstein Story (2000)  
> Hunter Davies - The Beatles (1969, 2009 ed.)  
> \+ https://beatlesbible.com
> 
> guess what i'm on tumblr [@areyougonnabe](http://areyougonnabe.tumblr.com)


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